


death, thrice drawn

by lovelykenobi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Autistic Will Graham, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Making Annoying Literature References, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, also duh, duh - Freeform, so there will be many art history references because i am a little nerd boy and so is will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelykenobi/pseuds/lovelykenobi
Summary: "Below the headline is a photograph, an all too familiar likeness. It’s a gruesome scene, but one that’s easily ascertainable. The sun rises a faint pink behind the trees and horizon, covering everything in an ambrosian glow. Between two oak trees, two bodies are posed like child’s toys; carefully constructed in the form of Michaelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. They’re orchestrated so carefully, so delicately, that the grisly image is almost beautiful. Will assumes they’re hung by fishing line, the figure of God almost appearing to truly be suspended in mid-air. Will can almost imagine them swaying in the wind. "---------------------Will Graham has been living a relatively peaceful life for the last few years of his life, teaching art history at university. Everything changes when Hannibal Lecter comes into his life.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 43





	1. the creation of adam

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally finished!! I've been laboring over this for many days and I am so excited to share it with all of you, and I very much hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! This is intended as a pilot chapter, so I can check the general interest of people in reading this fic (although I'll be writing it anyway because it's fun to, lol.) While y'all are reading, listen to [ghosting by mother mother ](https://open.spotify.com/track/3vZUC1m6QVm7urnN6lcF64?si=u3_oFpRwT8mGMX00GjPSYA) and [death, thrice drawn](https://open.spotify.com/track/1V6d4Ko0n8w2A8YL8fHcf1?si=D6BAe_rkRd-qAsx1FY7p_w) ! (which is the working title for this fic!!)  
> Before anything else please mind a little housekeeping:  
> \- I use many elements of canon in this fic and will continue to but it doesn't exist within canon universe, despite any inspirations!  
> \- This is based on NBC's Hannibal exclusively, not any other adaptions, sorry xx.  
> This chapter has mild gore, as will many other chapters. Lol. Comments and kudos are very much appreciated and always always make me smile! Thank you all. Enjoy!

“All night I stretched my arms across

him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing

with all my skin and bone “Please keep him safe.

Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be

like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed

to pieces.” Makes a cathedral, him pressing against

me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe

his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.”

\- Richard Siken

“Observe the images on the screen.” Will takes a short breath, raking his fingers through his hair in a practiced motion. “These images are from the _Cappella Palatina_ or Palatine Chapel in Palermo.” He reclines against the desk, observing the stepped seating before him, reminiscent of the Roman Coliseum; the front rows packed with senators (the majors and overachievers), the last row with women and non-Romans (those required to take the class, typically sleeping unaware or scrolling on their phones.) “Study what is before you.”

Of course, that is more a _suggestion_ than anything else. A good half of the classroom looks down from the projected images, looking at their phones. An opportunity for them to check out for a while. It is to be expected.

When Will closes his eyes, he finds himself within that grand structure. There is no universe in which Will Graham is not astonished by the sight. It’s like awakening within a living, breathing organ – everything in constant movement, in motion. The mosaics glitter around the room brighter than jewels; like the sun reflecting off a crystal-clear ocean. Will does not believe in god, but this place is the closest thing to the real deal. The shimmering mosaics encapsulate all elegance that the human world has to offer, perfect in luminescence and color. On the dome, images of Christ and his angels, light spilling in from the windows, a warm kiss from the sun – the grace of God, perhaps. It is resplendent, unlike anything else Will has ever seen. In the middle of such an extraordinary glow, a skeleton graven into the mosaicked floor. It is suspended in reverie, joyful in an image of the macabre – hands clasped in rapturous prayer.

The vision behind Will’s eyes changes quickly and he finds himself within the half-built basilica, the structure bare and unornamented. He hears the sounds of construction, voices chattering in Latin. A lavishly dressed attendant stands near the entrance, reading off something from a scroll of paper.

In another moment it changes again. Will watches the Byzantine artists meticulously build mosaics of the bible with nimble fingers. He builds the skeleton with a careful hand, piece by piece. It is the last of the floor to be completed – the walls are not yet done.

When Will opens his eyes, he’s slightly short for breath. Little time has passed, but it still takes a moment for him to center himself.

“Tell me what you see.”

A in the front row raises her hand. Her cheeks are round and full, and her eyes are bright. She’s a pretty girl, always answering questions when given the opportunity – and Will is almost sure the TA has a crush on her but has yet to ask. Will can’t quite remember her name… (Samantha?) (Sally?) He comes up blank and nods at her instead.

“I can see a heterogeneity of influences in the styles in the construction and decoration.” She taps her fingers against the laminated desk. “The Corinthian capitals are more reminiscent of Rome, while the marble inlay on the walls is uniquely Islamic.” Will gives her a faint nod, a faint smile across his face. He closes his eyes briefly, finding himself in the “On the other hand, the mosaics exhibit Byzantian-Greek.”

Will nods. “In sum, we can see European, Islamic, Sicilian, and Byzantian influences. Quite theremarkable feat of architecture.” The careful handiwork of the craftsmen flashes through his mind. Nearly half the time in construction was spent on those minute details, those tiny fragments. Will looks over the crowd, eyes flicking over those interested and those staring off into space. “Aside from just being a beautiful structure, it is an excellent example of the melding of cultures and artistic styles during the Norman era. That’s what makes the Cappella so momentous, so transcendent. Standing between the walls of the Cappella Palatina feels as if one is standing in the lungs of a living God.” Will grasps the sides of the desk. “Or the closest thing to it. _The most beautiful religious jewel ever dreamed by human thought._ ” Will chuckles lightly, more a breath than a laugh. “The balustrade and _ambon_ burnished in a baroque gold, the vaulted ceilings carved with intricate _muqarnas_ of Islamic heritage. But also, what makes this structure so magnificent, so…” Will trails off, biting his lip. “So _extraordinary_ is the pronounced skeleton on the floor. In all these images of the divine, of Christ and his angels, a skeleton on the stage. It regards God above him, hands clasped in an almost prayer - yet its rapture is visible, head tipped in exultation. It is almost in movement, almost dancing – almost thanking as well, hands clasped in thanks to an unknown audience.” He runs his fingers through his hair again.

“What do you think is the purpose of such an icon?”

Hands go up. Will pauses for a moment, then chooses someone in the middle rows. She sports two braids and a thin, pretty face with almond eyes and tanned skin. Will meets her eyes and nods. “Go ahead.”

“I think it reminds of the two facets of God.” She remarks in a small voice. “Creator and destroyer, kind and cruel.”

“That’s a good point. God creates but God destroys, especially in the Old Testament.” Will laughs. “That’s often the parts that go overlooked for most people.” He pauses. “Anyone else?”

Another student raises his hand. His curly hair is pulled back into a loose bun, his glasses slipping down his nose. “In the textbook, they talked about how the chapel was built on top of crypts. Could that have anything to do with it?”

“Also a very good point.” Will says. “Last one and then we’ll go.”

Someone near the very back of the room raises their hand. It’s so far away from Will’s desk that the person is no more than a shadow. “You in the back, go ahead.”

“It acts as a contrast to the divine, the darkness an antithesis to the luminosity in the shimmering golds in the murals – a reminder that light is only given meaning by Stygian tenebrosity. The immutability of death is what gives life its meaning. To have heaven there is a cardinal need for the concept of hell, and this image invites us a visit to examine the unillumined hell, its’ Tartarean depths caliginous. In turn, the onlooker is given a further appreciation for the converse – for life and the living.” The voice is measured; composed through the elegant remark. His voice is faintly accented, distinctly eastern European but beyond that, Will can’t place it.

Will stills for a moment, shocked that one of the back row students would answer a question, let alone respond with something so elegant. Will says a silent prayer to no one specific that he isn’t being audited by the university without his knowing. His grip tightens on the desk, nearly white-knuckled.

“Papers are due next week, don’t forget.” Will says, sighing. Only a couple of students have come in to receive feedback. “Class dismissed.”

The door swings open, blasting Will with bright light as the students filter out. No one stops by for anything more than a _goodbye_ or a _thank you, Professor Graham._ Will is a little grateful for it and turns to pack his things at a relaxed pace.

“That was an exquisite lecture, Professor Graham.” The same voice before states. Will jumps slightly with surprise – he hadn’t heard him coming down the steps. The man smells faintly of sandalwood and pine woods, reminding Will of his drives up to the country. Will turns around, accidentally sweeping several loose papers onto the floor with the quick motion. 

“Shit, sorry.” Will says, bending to collect the stray papers. His hand brushes against the stranger’s hand as he reaches to grab the test paper. The man has _surprisingly_ soft skin. The stranger takes hold of the paper and hands it to Will after he stands up.

“No need for apologies.”

This time Will can finally get a decent look at him. He’s smartly dressed, mauve button up under black tie, blue suit coat, _expensive_ blue suit coat. He’s also well-groomed, not a single silver hair falling astray. And he really does _smell_ good, like how women smell, striking but not overwhelming. He’s smiling faintly at Will.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I’m in the Psychology Department.” He shakes Will’s hand and it’s somehow the perfect handshake. Will’s father had taught him how to give a good handshake – apparently, an essential trait for men – but Hannibal Lecter seems to have mastered it and then some. His skin is like, genuinely soft too. Like a baby. Hannibal Lecter is seemingly charismatic in every aspect. It’s impressive.

“I’m Will.” He scratches the back of his head. “Will Graham. Nice to meet you.”

Will remembers that Hannibal already _knew_ his name, and his lips curl up in a sheepish smile.

“Did I startle you?” His eyes flicker with mirth. "I apologize.”

Will shakes his head slightly. “No big deal.” He leans back on his desk. “So what brings you to my classroom today, Dr. Lecter?”

“Nostalgia, predominantly. I was giving thought to my own college years and found myself ruminating on my art history courses.” Hannibal smiles. “My colleagues spoke of you quite illustriously.”

 _Illustriously is much too nice a term,_ Will thinks to himself. He’s relatively sure that they’d describe him as odd, to say the least. He’s never been the social type, and his colleagues quickly learned that he wasn’t the type to fraternize with at any social gathering. For a few years, he’d gone to department parties and the like but ended up spending most of his time in silence, scrolling through his phone. Eventually, Will gave up, resigning himself to drinking alone at home. 

It didn’t bother Will all that much either way. His investment in people is limited – talking to his students is an easy task, since Will is talking _at_ them, rather than _to_ them, aside from the few spare moments of interaction. When someone is talking to him, it’s not as easy.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t to your disappointment, Dr. Lecter.” Will chuckles lowly.

“It was not to my disappointment. I found it quite _sui generis_ , in fact. You’re quite knowledgeable, Professor Graham.”

“You can call me Will.”

Hannibal nods.

“So, what do you teach, Dr. Lecter?

“Abnormal psychology.” He responds. “In the springs I teach an introduction to psychology, as well. And on the off chance that there’s time in my schedule, I teach a classic literature class.” He straightens his watch on his wrist, the clock-face perfectly centered to his middle finger. “Aside from this course, what is your repertoire?”

Will rubs the corner of his eye with his index finger. “European art is my specialty, I wrote my thesis on northern Renaissance; but I’m partial to Baroque and rococo, in terms of my personal tastes.”

Hannibal breaks the silence with that crisp voice – evocative of a cold autumn breeze, October descending into November. “I’ve been told you’re one of the best in the department. I’ve also heard you have an unusual approach to your study.”

Will rakes his fingers through his hair again, feeling a little chafed at the incursion. He chokes out a strangled laugh. He doesn’t particularly like to talk about, especially to people at the university, _especially_ those from the psychology department. They always want to poke around in his brain, pull a few wires loose and see what happens. See what makes him tick. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t make assumptions about me based on rumors, Dr. Lecter.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me.” Despite the apology, Hannibal is hardly diffident – his cool demeanor hardly sways. “I should have clarified earlier. I’m well acquainted with your friend Dr. Alana Bloom. We’ve worked together for many years. She speaks very highly of you, Will.”

Will silently wonders if she’d called them friends, or if Hannibal just assumed so.

“She was the one who suggested I sit in for one of your classes.” Hannibal smiles. “I found her remarks on your knowledge to be veritable.” Will’s eyes sweep over him again, landing on the windows behind Hannibal’s head. Lush green trees sway outside the window, leaves beginning to tinge with tones of warm orange and vivid yellow. “I sought to ascertain if the rumors about you had any legitimacy - I also cannot help but harbor some curiosity of my own.” Hannibal pauses, carefully considering his next words. “Dr. Bloom outright refused to divulge any information about you, despite my unadulterated intentions.” He looks a bit dampened as he remembers it. “She appears to harbor more than just a _professional curiosity_ for you, as she asserts.”

Will feels a little sore at the phrase _professional curiosity._ Alana Bloom is strikingly intelligent – Will contends she’s more intelligent than anyone he knows, including himself. She’s aware of Will’s unique way of thinking – of seeing, really – but she never dared to broach the subject. At least in front of Will. But it’s nice to know his trust was not misplaced.

“She’s quite protective of you, in fact.” Hannibal remarks.

Will smiles faintly despite himself – he’s been harboring a romantic interest for Alana Bloom for some time. (Calling it a crush seemed too childish to Will, so he’d tentatively settled on calling it nothing at all.) He liked her, enjoyed her company, however you’d like to put it.

“I recall you’re also writing a book?”

“Yes.” Will remarks. “On sin, murder, and violence in European art from the ancient world to the Renaissance.” He hasn’t had much of a chance to work on it since fall classes began again, the draft collecting metaphorical dust on Will’s laptop. 

“The three great blemishes of mankind. In the words of Homer, we men are wretched things, and I am very inclined to agree. How did you happen upon such a grim subject for your first book?” 

Will cracks his knuckles, relaxing back onto the desk behind him. He pauses for a moment, chewing his lip just slightly. Hannibal Lecter seems intent on meeting his eyes, which makes Will feel like he’s under a microscope. He shivers slightly, half from the cold of the room and half from Hannibal’s unbreaking gaze, strong yet blithe. Almost predatory, yet impossibly charming.

Will doesn’t notice the ulterior motives of Hannibal’s questioning – to satisfy his own professional curiosity – and continues.

“My first couple years of college, I worked as a consultant for police stations, mostly. The FBI a couple of times, too. Profiling.” Will pauses, his knuckles tightening on the desk. He’s sure that he looks pale. “I can… Empathize with them, I guess. Visualize them. Get inside their heads.” Those memories can never be cleansed, a permanent stain – a curse mark. He sighs. “I’d intended to go into law enforcement there. I enrolled in the academy at Quantico. I just dropped at the last moment." Will stares down at his shoes. “I helped a lot of people.” He pauses for a beat, wanting to say and _I could have helped a lot more,_ but Hannibal speaks before he can.

“In turn, you witnessed the most gruesome violence mankind has to offer.”

Will nods.

“Tell me then, Will. How did you end up here?”

“Happenstance, really. I took an art history class – it was the only thing that was open. Turns out I had an edge, my visualizing, empathizing, whatever you wanna call it – I understood the art, the process. And I liked it.” His imagination had often felt like a curse, but this was relaxing, calming, gratifying, even. 

“Your talents must offer you a significant advantage over your colleagues.”

Will scratches his head, laughing softly. “I suppose so.”

“What a fascinating book that will be. Send me a copy when it’s published, will you?” Hannibal’s smiling, always smiling.

“I’d be happy to.”

***

Beverly Katz calls Will at six-thirty in the morning when Will has his hands deep in the garbage bin that stores the pottery studios’ clay. He wipes his hands on his jeans and swipes across the screen, leaving a brown smudge. Will swears.

“Hello?”

“Have you seen the news?” She says. 

Beverly should know better than to think Will is the type to sit down and allot a time in his day for watching the news, which makes Will smile. Will says, “no, why?”

“You should check the news.”

Will wipes his other hand on his apron. He unlocks the screen of his phone, leaving clay residue in the hairline crack on the screen – the dogs were roughhousing and knocked Will clean over, sending his phone careening clear across the room. He hadn’t had the time – or the care – to bother to replace it.

He navigates to the news app on his phone. The front page reads, in bold font, **_Michelangelo Maniac Murders Two._**

It’s a hammy title, but Will reads on. Below the headline is a photograph, an all too familiar likeness. It’s a gruesome scene, but one that’s easily ascertainable. The sun rises a faint pink behind the trees and horizon, covering everything in an ambrosian glow. Between two oak trees, two bodies are posed like child’s toys; carefully constructed in the form of Michaelangelo’s _The Creation of Adam._ They’re orchestrated so carefully, so delicately, that the grisly image is almost beautiful. Will assumes they’re hung by fishing line, the figure of God almost appearing to truly be suspended in mid-air. Will can almost imagine them swaying in the wind.

They look so peaceful, bodies unsullied by blood and wounds – one might think they were sleeping,

The architect of the scene carefully chose their models – they are alike the figures in the fresco, from their clothes up to their faces. The man intended to embody God has thick grey locks and a scruffy beard, cloaked in white drapery. There is not even a speck of blood on the pristine clothing that sweeps around him as if suspended in heavenly wind. This architect’s God is somewhat youthful, strong, and composed. His arm is posed to stretch to reach the figure of Adam, poised against a nearby tree.

And Adam is made in his image, reclining against the base of the tree, body nude and evidently relaxed. His Adam responds to God’s reach. Their fingers are nearly touching, a breath’s away from contact. The first breath of life, of the first man created in God’s image. An image once of life – of creation of the very fabric of humanity itself – is now illustrated in death.

They’re devised with the same careful, ardent hand as any artist. That makes Will feel even more disquieted and he shivers, a cold chill blanketing his body as a feeling of dread tingles up his spine. It is a chilling familiar sight, the breath of a ghost – a past life, when Will’s life was untethered, no more than a piece of driftwood, clinging onto every breath of life in a world with nothing but death – an endless black.

Will reads the article in short order.

_Two bodies were discovered this morning in Baltimore in a park, identified to be Mark Williams and Matthew Williams. The father and son were co-owners and landlords of some of Baltimore’s biggest and most popular apartment buildings. Their bodies were meticulously displayed in the fashion of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam,” one of the many frescoes he painted in the Sistine Chapel in Rome, Italy. They were found less than 20 miles away from the University of Maryland, Baltimore campus. They were found in a park, apparently hung by fishing wire, and apparently, both victims had missing vital organs. Could it be the work of the infamous Chesapeake Ripper?_

Photo credit: Freddie Lounds

Will suddenly feels immensely tired. The sun has barely risen yet he feels like he has been awake for days, struggling through deep water as the strong, swift current swallows him, the rapids cresting around him as cold river water surges over his head, filling his ears, his nose, his mouth and finally his lungs.

His head spins, his stomach surging like it’s filled with vinegar. Will’s heart is stormy, like the tide of his mind could overcome him at any moment. He does not know what would happen if it did, but he knows that it is not something he wants.

“Will?”

He’s almost forgotten that Beverly is waiting on the other side of the line. He hopes she didn’t hear his slightly haggard breathing. His heart is still pounding.

“Yeah.” Will says, his tone grim.

“They’re going to call you, you know that, right?”

Beverly has known Will since his days working in profiling, and they remained close afterward – despite her going into the FBI.

Will wants to say _then I won’t fucking answer,_ but instead, he says:

“I know.”

He ends the call, feeling sour. He might as well be drowning now, everything in the room sounding too far away for him to comprehend – he can hear the loud filters of the room running, but it’s like he’s underwater. It’s just the ghost of a sound, a memory from a past life.

A scene flashes behind Will’s eyes of himself hoisting that man up into the tree, wrapping the white garment around his body. He watches himself killing that man, removing his heart while his son watches in horror. _No one will hear their screams,_ Will thinks.

The vision dissipates and Will feels as if he’s been splashed by ice-cold water, gasping for air. His heart is hammering inside of his chest, threatening to break through his ribcage and cover the pottery studio in blood. Will’s stomach contracts and he chokes, barely making it to a trashcan before the vomit comes. He retches once, twice, three times, emptying toast and eggs and slightly burnt coffee. The acrid taste sticks in his mouth, his mouth burning like Will’s swallowed bleach.

“Fuck.”

He’s trembling a little – whether from the vomit or the anxiety, he isn’t sure. All he knows is he feels like shit.

Will doesn’t have to give it much thought before he’s in the car on the way back home. It may as well have been in the blink of an eye, in a heartbeat. Like his body is turned on autopilot. He cancels class with a quick email and shuts off his phone. Beverly has texted him again, but he ignores it.

He makes the forty-five-minute drive in nearly under thirty minutes. It’s not like Will was trying to rush, but he’d drifted out from his body as if he were in the backseat of his own mind. Just watching himself. Unable to interfere, like a ghost.

Will’s head is throbbing, his hands still trembling slightly. His whole body hurts as if every inch of his skin is covered in bruises.

When he opens the door to the house, a wave of relief washes over him. The dogs start barking when he walks in the door and they nearly knock him over as they swarm him, a throng of wet noses and fur. Will collapses to the ground, petting and hugging his pack. For the first time in what feels more than just a couple of hours, he feels centered – like he’s climbed out of the river. He’s still cold, he’s still wet, and there’s still water in his lungs. But he’s not drowning anymore. At least for now.

Will doesn’t know when he started crying, but his cheeks feel wet.

“Hey, guys.” He says in a soft voice. “Hey everyone.”

Will pulls off his boots, cleaning off the clay that was under his fingernails, and he climbs into bed. He does not consider himself the type to nap and he rarely does, but he climbs into his bed. Winston curls up next to him, seemingly sensing his abnormal mood.

It is enough, even if just for a little while. A moment of calm in the middle of a storm.


	2. the dream / the deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will prepares his materials, climbing up a platform. “ _I work in reverse, my figures becoming larger than life as I continue to realize the nine scenes of Genesis. From Noah to Adam and Eve and finally, to the creation of man himself._ ” Will smiles, stepping back to admire his work. “ _I represent humanity under the eyes of the divine from Creation to the Fall. This is my design._ ”  
> TW for gore/blood mention, skip the first scene until the *** if you can't handle that <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello i am staying on schedule !!!! wooooo !!! highly recommend listening to [vesuvius by sufjan stevens](https://open.spotify.com/track/0CbTZTXrJ5FOWEADxEh8Qk?si=rCOPwFznTN6T7bdB_rDxLQ) and / or [cherry wine by hozier](https://open.spotify.com/track/1C042FLYy7rP3MfnkOcnha?si=nSlx8twmTnyZZOdQI-Hwxg) while reading. also i finished the official [death, thrice drawn playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1cCShXZAcHWJkNZa9gPMkr?si=XXJxTItNQNufbJNgrEQIUA) so you can also listen to that !  
> enjoy!

Will is not afforded a good nights’ rest – he rarely is. Instead, his dreams come in swarms of blood and fragments of bone, plagues of his past that he can’t seem to rid himself of. Most nights, hands himself in the scenes of his past, tearing flesh free with his own hands, pulling the trigger, twisting the knife. The worst part, of course, is the part he fears to admit – how good it feels to be the one doing it. That terrifies him more than any horror scene that lies behind his eyes.

But tonight, he awakes in a dark room, a space Will does not recognize from any part of his life. Will props himself up, brushing away the curls that stick to his forehead. He can hardly see his own hand, let alone the endless darkness that permeates the room.

Well, not really a room – the expanse is vast and deep, and Will can’t tell where the space begins or ends, like he’s reached the end of the world. A place where everything comes together, and everything ends. Despite that, this place is profoundly peaceful, a void absent of silence and light; absent of fear or worry. The only sound that reverberates around him is the sound of his own breathing, which seems to echo on forever. Everything else is so still, like the night sendless void of space – only absent of stars.

The only familiarity of this place is the bed he is still resting upon, grey sheets dampened with sweat. This place does not feel like a dream – it is too sharp, too clear, like Will was never asleep at all, and Will is suddenly overcome with a strong feeling to venture out into the vast space, even if some part of him doubts what is beyond. He wants nothing more than to embrace the lull of the seemingly endless dusk beyond him. And Will feels impossibly magnetized to it, seeking only to be absorbed by it; the tranquility of nothing at all. To be made one with it. To be swallowed by it. To forget his own troubles, to forget where he ends, and the darkness begins.

Will does not realize the weight of that thought, as if only half of him is thinking, and as if that part is fleeting. Any doubt or fear remaining in Will’s mind fades instantaneously.

In short order, Will pushes away the layers of comforter and sheets, peeling them off like a second skin. He navigates like the blind, first finding the headboard with outstretched fingers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the floor. A light splashing sound echoes throughout the space as Will’s feet meet the water pooling around his bedframe, the liquid coming up to his shins as he stands – strangely warm, too. His heart pounds, near frenzied, and he rushes to step off of the bed and into the water.

The bitter scent fills his nostrils quickly – so intense Will can taste it on his tongue - and it doesn’t take him more than a moment to recognize the stench, slightly sweet and coppery, a bitter assault on his senses. He isn’t sure how he didn’t notice it before. The fragrance of blood is always familiar, but this is _fresh_ blood that is pooling around Will’s ankles. He realizes the crimson liquid is flowing around him too, a steady current going forwards. He steps out into the water, moving further away from the bed, and as he wanders forward, he finds that the the slow trickle turns into a steady current. It only makes the sweet, metallic scent stronger. It is almost enticing.

It does not alarm Will – in fact, he feels all-too complacent with it, his brain not fully comprehending the details of his situation, his cognizance fading, his mind addled, like a tranquilized animal. He feels only a draw towards the darkness, his consciousness returning briefly before fading again.

Will wonders for a moment if this is a liminal space, that if this is a space in between the world he knows, and the next. If he crosses this plane, will he find himself on the other side? Will considers it for a moment, but his thoughts fade quickly, transient. Replaced by nothing at all. Hollow.

Will can feel the ground under his bare feet but it’s a foreign texture – nothing like sand or mud or pebbles – unsteady, like he’s walking on rocks, yet soft and squishy - but not firm enough to sink in or to lose his foothold. Will moves slowly, cautiously. He keeps his hands out to avoid bumping into anything, but he only finds a vast emptiness beyond his fingertips. As the current picks up, the smell of blood smells less fresh, rotting and putrid. Will chokes down the urge to vomit, but it fades in another instant – then, he hardly notices it at all. His mind continues come in and out of consciousness, and the loss of consciousness seems to intensify the further Will walks into the water, like the water is stripping him away – peeling back the layers of his identity; washing him clean of all troubles and worries.

In the back of his mind, Will considers the notion of death, if this place is not so simple as a dream, but rather if he has died in his sleep. It would make sense, but the thought still disorients Will, and he finds himself concerned for the life he’s leaving behind, namely worried for who will take care of his dogs. Will they be alright, without him? His throat constricts with pain, and Will panics for a moment, nearly slipping, barely keeping himself from tumbling forward into the stinking liquid. Perhaps that is what breaks Will from the trance and forces the last of his remaining human consciousness back into his mind.

 _What is going on? Where am I?_ Will thinks to himself for a moment – a voice of rationality breaking through – and he pauses. A wave of intense panic hits him and Will’s heart slams against his chest, threatening to break the barrier of his body. His thoughts come fragmented, and Will struggles to keep hold of his waking mind. _Blood… Around me._ Will turns around, struggling back to find the frame of his bed, the last remaining part of life. It is gone, replaced by only darkness. The stench of the stinking blood becomes only more intense as his consciousness struggles to hold on, and Will recoils in horror, but there is nowhere to go. Nothing to climb onto. No escape. Will is horrified. He chokes on a sour breath.

His thoughts come broken, barely able to hold on to a moment of clarity. _WhereamIWhereamIWhereamIWhereamI…._ In his altered state, Will struggles to reconcile his urges – his desire, perhaps, or the desire of whatever is messing with his mind – with his personal rationalism, with his fear, but it’s hard to focus. Like he’s been drugged. Will can feel himself drifting away, holding onto the last structure in the halls of his mind. As if he’s not entirely in control of himself, his motivations. _HavetogetoutHavetogetoutHavetogetout…._ Suddenly he is afraid, very afraid of this place. It feels so tangible, so real that Will is filled with dread. His heart pounds. He is debased to his most animal instincts, but Will’s sense of sight is gone, and that pushes him towards panic even more.

A voice whispers to him – not actually speaking, rather coming from _inside_ of Will – though not quite a thought, yet not quite a separate voice. It is deafening and yet impossibly silent. It… He? Whispers to him, soothing him as if one would soothe a child, or a frightened animal. At first, Will fights back, knowing he is caught and struggling to break free – but whatever fight he has in him is powerless in a moment. The animal instincts fade. Will’s heart relaxes. His muscles untense, his jaw unclenches. His breathing slows. His consciousness is gone again.

Will no longer panics, he no longer can – the notion doesn’t even come to him. He’s placid again. He feels so calm here, the warm blood around him almost comforting. Like he’s returned back to where he once came, to the blood coursing through his veins, to the very fabric of all living things. Like returning to the stars. Like going home. He kneels in the shallow pool of blood and gathers it in his hands, cupping his palms – desperate, like a man stricken with thirst. He coats his cheeks with the crimson liquid, piloted by something all his own. It drips down his flesh, across his lips. When he tastes it, he almost smiles. A passion all his own.

He does not feel clouded or confused, in fact, Will feels so whole. A sense of belonging, almost. As he steps forward, the blood swallowing him, Will seems to remember less and less of his fears, forgetting even his perception of his own self. He steps forward into the liquid, pushing against the current until it passes his knees, reaches his thighs, soaks his boxers and shirt. It is thicker than water, the substance viscous and gooey as it sticks to Will’s skin. The blood splashes onto his skin and he tastes it again, feeling charged. Energized. Magnetic.

He still can’t see anything, but he feels a magnetic attraction to walk deeper into the darkness, - if depth really has any meaning in this place. It seems to go on forever and yet nowhere at all. Will still seeks to go further and he feels almost bewitched, guided by something beyond him. He craves it, to return to it. To be devoured by the darkness. There is no memory left of who he once was. He is forgetting, he does not stop forgetting. Until the only memory left is of this place, of the journey. Of the most carnal desires he has left, to reach the darkness.

Will finds himself at what feels like the deepest place of the river and the current swarms around him, the sounds of the river soporific. It reaches his mid-waist, and the sickeningly metallic scent becomes comforting; familiar. Like the blood is his own. Like he could slip away into it. He pauses, enraptured by the feeling of belonging. He could let go here, lose his footing, and let the river take him. No need to cross it, to reach the other side. Maybe that is why Will does not struggle when something wraps around his ankle, pulling him under the liquid, dragging him down with a strength that Will could not win against – if he were fighting back, anyway. He’s like an animal set for slaughter. He surrenders.

In the crimson depths, Will loses the last semblance of himself. By becoming one with something else, he is finally set free.

***

Rumors buzz around campus for a couple of days on the subject of the murders. Will tries his best to ignore them, he really does – but there’s not much of a hotter topic for the art history department than a murder scene _literally_ resembling a painting. On top of that, the prevailing theory remains that it was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, which the news did little to disagree with. Much to Will’s dismay, the general reporting on the subject sent campus into a frenzy.

Will strides into class on a chilly Friday morning, running a bit behind his usual schedule despite his best efforts – the dogs had chosen this specific morning to knock over Will’s table, sending half-graded papers across the kitchen. He’d struggled sleepily to pick them up and miss the morning traffic, but it was to no avail. Between that and another group of campus-based distractions, Will missed his opportunity to go to the pottery studio this morning, lamenting the chance to check on a vase that was fired the previous night.

“I apologize for being late.” Will says, flicking his eyes over the class. They come to rest on Dr. Lecter, sitting in the second row of seats. He smiles at Will faintly, nodding. It’s been several days since Will saw him last, and Will wasn’t entirely sure if Hannibal would be returning to his classroom again.

He feels even more ashamed for being late to a class Hannibal was sitting in on. In the past few nights absent of sleep, Will had done a couple of Google searches on Hannibal Lecter, learning that his colleague was held in much higher regard than he was, at least in terms of academic merits. A great number of awards and gleaming reviews in many journals – he’d even written a couple of books, in fact. Some of his work had gone right over Will’s head but he’d learned enough – that Hannibal was a man of reputation.

And here he was, in Will’s classroom again, intently listening like any student, only without the notebook or laptop to match. Like he wasn’t any more than just an enamored student. He’s still as smartly dressed as before, much more than just a step-up from Will – his suit is elegant, clean-pressed, perfectly paired – definitely not a garb hanging from a mannequin at Macy’s. Clearly expensive. Some part of Hannibal’s energy makes Will feel almost _small,_ like viewing something almost divine. Like Hannibal is far beyond him, not just in terms of wealth, or class – Will never has been the type to care about that, about his image – but in how he perceives the world, like he is just walking among it. Like he is observing something beneath him – like he, himself is a higher being - like Hannibal is watching ants struggling to build a hill with tiny grains of sand.

Will just isn’t sure yet for what reasons Hannibal watches the world the way he does. It doesn’t appear to be a game of power, he doesn’t want to squash the ants, or light them on fire with a magnifying glass – and it’s not quite to study them, either – because there’s no need to study the structures of ants when you understand the highest concepts of design, of science, of mathematics.

It almost reminds Will of the stories of gods walking among the earth – not for any reason but to live it, to experience it through the eyes of their own creation, to feel how they feel. Will wonders how Hannibal considers himself, if he considers himself at all. He seems to only consider Will. Maybe he is the ant. Maybe Hannibal is still trying to figure out if he wants to fry him with a magnifying glass or not.

Will struggles to center himself, taking a deep breath before he begins his lecture.

“When talking about these artworks, I want you all to consider them not just as a singular event in history, but how they work backwards and forwards – as inspirations of the past, and the inspirers of the future. High Renaissance art, as a whole, works in many ways, in the ideas of the Greeks and the Romans. Their styles, their ideas of proportion, so on and so forth.” Will takes a deep breath – he tries his best not to ramble, but it’s so very easy to. He’s speaking not just from the information, but from his heart. It’s easy to lose track of himself in the artworks, fusing with the hearts of the creators until he forgets where he begins, and the artist ends. It’s a soothing distraction, and he untenses a little.

“How they considered Greek and Roman art to be the highest form of art ever achieved. They sought to achieve the same exact, naturalistic representation of the human form that they considered the Greeks to have mastered.” Will flicks his eyes across the room, across the students struggling to keep up with his lecture pace, frantically writing notes, overlooking the students half – or even fully – asleep. Will envies them, in some ways. It’s not just his brain that is exhausted anymore, but his body. He aches all over, and his hands always tremble slightly from mass amounts of caffeine.

“And in the future, how High Renaissance art was – and is – considered as the height of artistic achievement, in many ways. How we continue to respect, and even idolize High Renaissance art, viewing it as one of the most advanced time periods of art.”

Will tries to distract himself from the sharpest gaze in the room, how Hannibal follows him as he paces about, finally coming to rest, perched on the top of the desk. He’s not watching him like the other students are – they’re listening to Will, looking at the images on the screen, glancing at him on occasion. Hannibal is _watching_ him, intently. Like he cares less about the lecture than Will. Like he’s trying to discern some truth about Will, and that makes him feel itchy. Will feels like Hannibal is fiddling with the magnifying glass, waiting for a ray of sunlight to come overhead. At the least, it’s too close.

He presses the button to turn to the next slide. “Now, I’m not trying to tell you that we shouldn’t respect the artworks of the High Renaissance.” Will turns to the next slide. “These works continue to be famous – the superstars, of the art world, if you will.” Will smiles at his own words.

“The technical artistic skills that were learned and mastered during this time are not to be discounted, by any means. I just want you all to take away from these lectures that as students of art history, you must understand art as a conversation. It’s very reactionary. And it isn’t necessarily comprised of exclusively forward progress – certain ideas and concepts are held within high regard but go out of fashion, eventually.” Will takes a shallow breath, reaching aside to grab his coffee mug. “In the 18th and 19th centuries, we can see a return to Greek and Roman styles with Neoclassicism, just as it was in the High Renaissance.” Will glances across the room again, taking a drink of his coffee. It’s too hot and scalds his tongue. “It’s important to consider how the same ideas have different interpretations, and thus different results. I think it’s also interesting to consider how those art forms in the High Renaissance inspire not just art, but the world as a whole, in ways we might not often expect.” Will chews his lip, switching to the next slide.

 _The Creation of Adam_ is projected on the screen, the painted one almost less familiar than the one that hides behind Will’s eyes and haunts his dreams. It’s like a ghost from his past life breaking through the wall into his present, too close for comfort. “Michelangelo’s frescos on the Sistine Chapel are some of the most iconic and beloved artworks of all time, and exhibit some of the most incredible elements in the High Renaissance.” Will closes his eyes, sucking a breath into his lungs. The light flashes behind his eyelids and when he opens his eyes again, he finds himself inside of the chapel.

Will first sees the chapel as he so clearly remembers it from his sabbatical in Italy. It’s so tangible that he can almost _smell_ it, the refreshing fragrance of chapels and art museums – not just dust and aged paint but it _fills_ him, stilling the uneasiness that seems to never go away. For a moment, Will relaxes.

He lets out another breath and before his eyes the familiar image of the chapel changes, hundreds of years swelling and contracting, visitors coming and going like the tide. Will can’t be sure how long it takes for the scene to revert to the past but it’s always like waking up. When he opens his eyes, the structure is unchanged, but when Will cranes his neck to look up, the ceiling is painted blue and adorned with stars.

In this moment, the lines blur and Will cannot decide where he stands, as the observer, or the creator. “The original chapel’s walls were painted by multiple different artists, including Botticelli and Perugino.” Will says, glancing around the space. He blinks again and finds himself in a different place.

“ _I was asked to take the job at my rival’s hopes to orchestrate my downfall._ ” Will says. “ _My skills reside more in the discipline of sculpting than of painting, but I am unable to politely refuse the job due to being spoken of such high regard by Raphael of Urbino. They hope to run me out of Italy, to witness me make a fool of myself in front of the Pope, the church, and God himself.”_ Will says these words to no one at all, echoing in the empty theatre of his mind, never coming from the mouth of his flesh and blood.

Will shifts his focus to the classroom, reforming his words. He cannot see them, but he presumes he’s facing them when he speaks to them. This skill has taken some cultivating – to break from the illusion while still maintaining it, speaking through a one-sided mirror.

This is the factor that makes him so unusual in his field and so unpalatable to his colleagues, who often believe him to be feigning the depth of his understanding. It’s not like Will is inventing – his study often doesn’t reveal new understanding, his colleagues know that – at least not most of the time. He doesn’t often seek to rewrite history, rather to parse it on a more personal level. They are typically equally aware of what Will knows, but instead of needing to read to understand, Will is the lightning rod of perception, the middleman, or rather - a translator. He looks into the past, and he understands. Will does not claim to know more – instead, Will has no need to study carefully to understand the motivations, the processes, the techniques. He can look at a painting and deconstruct it stroke by stroke, stand in a building and take it apart as if it were made of Legos. Taking it apart and putting it back together, himself as the architect, the painter, the creator. He observes and he understands without someone needing to tell him _what_ he understands.

That, of course, is what makes Will so unlikeable. He does not need to study the artwork separately to understand the artist, or vice versa. In the halls of his mind, Will doesn’t just study – he creates. The boundaries are blurred. And on top of that, he doesn’t shy away from clarifying – or even rewriting - the facts when they are wrong. Which does not help with his reputation among his colleagues.

Will hasn’t done much to fight any negative perceptions of him, _let his colleagues believe whatever they want, he couldn’t give less of a fuck, whether they think Will’s the real deal or not._ He doesn’t need the social element of his career, and he doesn’t need the validation of academic circles to continue his work. He’d rather be alone with a work of art, putting it together and taking it apart again, equal parts analytical and emotional. Rather than clarifying himself to strangers, Will limits the understanding of his _unusual talents_ to Alana Bloom, to Beverly Katz. Perhaps, even, to Hannibal Lecter, who seems more than interested to understand him.

“At the bequest of two of Michelangelo’s rivals, he was asked to perform such a complex task, as he was known more for his sculpting than his painting.” Will smiles. “He tried to turn down the task, but his attempts were to no avail.” Will chuckles lightly. “To think that trivial rivalries resulted in one of the most acclaimed artworks of all time.”

In the theatre of Will’s mind, he says: “ _I am originally asked to paint the twelve apostles, but as I am forced into this position, I urge for a more complex design. Twelve figures are not enough to embody the depth of my piety._ ” Will has not yet begun his work, only observing the space around him, envisioning the ceiling transformed. _“I will instead paint 300 figures befit of my artistic skill – I will not be so easily put down. It took a flood to create something more beautiful than ever before. This is my the flood.”_ Will sits, sketching, planning. He can see the images so clearly in his mind. He reads through the Old Testament, taking notes, formulating plans. _“I devise the scheme myself, studying the stories of the Bible as my inspiration. The beauty of scripture imbues me with the ardor to work, to embody the salvation, the glory of god.”_ Will takes a deep breath, setting aside his plans to regard the ceiling. “ _I hire assistants, but I am dissatisfied with the quality of their work. They fail to realize my design. I conclude, instead, to finish the chapel on my own. I am the only one who can realize my intentions.”_

Will prepares his materials, climbing up a platform. “ _I work in reverse, my figures becoming larger than life as I continue to realize the nine scenes of Genesis. From Noah to Adam and Eve and finally, to the creation of man himself.”_ Will smiles, stepping back to admire his work. “ _I represent humanity under the eyes of the divine from Creation to the Fall. This is my design.”_

“The sequence of frescoes begins with Creation, but he began…” Will pauses, opening his eyes again. “ _I begin with_ ,”Will says as works carefully, first sketching the scene, the skeletons of the dramatic poses, “the Noah fresco.” Will says, his voice reverberating in the space. There is paint in Will’s hair and his cheeks are dusted with plaster. He attempts to wipe off the dust but ends up brushing paint across his cheek. It reminds him too much of the dream, of the taste of blood in his mouth. “ _I paint the rising waters, the torrential rain, humans gripped with fear and tragedy. My subjects are not easy to make out – this is purposeful. I sever the connection between the viewer of my work and the subjects in the image. Noah’s Ark is the center of the catastrophe, an emblem of the church, and a reminder of the salvation of God.”_

Will finishes the last element of the fresco and stands back to admire his work. _“As I work, the extent of my confident grows, as do the sizes of my figures.”_ Will brushes some plaster out of his hair, tipping his neck forward to shake it out of his curls.

A woman’s scream resounds so loud Will reflexively covers his ears. He looks up to find that the scene has changed – he’s no longer in the chapel, no, instead he finds himself in a cold and rainy world, water pooling around his ankles. The sound of rain fills his ears and thunder cracks in the sky, threatening to shatter everything – the force of an angry God. Before him, the painting has transformed into real life, or perhaps, Will has entered the world of the painting. Will stands, transfixed, his breath catching in his throat. His heart pounds and he tries to step forward, but he can’t move, frozen in place. Will is anchored to the ground, rainwater pouring down on him, soaking him in an instant. His suit jacket sags down with water, droplets collecting and dripping down his curls and onto his cheeks. He removes his glasses, tucking them in the pocket of his jacket. Will carefully tries to wrench himself from his position, but it’s unsuccessful. He struggles against his bounds to no avail – he is only an observer, entirely powerless. Even if the destruction in motion around him is entirely false, Will still struggles witnessing such suffering – watching destruction like this occur in front of his own eyes removes the barrier that reality upholds. He’s never empathized with something entirely fictional before, but it does not change the intensity of his emotions.

The air holds a salty fragrance, and the sea is still overflowing, swelling around the base of the hill Will is anchored on. Will is standing on solid ground, but the water is rising around him and the torrential rain continues to pour down around him - threatening to take everything with it, including Will. It’s only an illusion, but that does not slow Will’s heart – his instincts still feel terrified. Nearby to him, groups of people both naked and clothed climb up the rocky hill, climbing and clawing away from a surge of water that is only growing, a promise of impending doom.

A man hoists himself up into a barren tree, holding onto the branches for dear life. People shelter at the base of the tree, huddled under the naked branches. Women are carrying their sobbing children, men are hauling their belongings, they all struggle and slip up the hill. Those who slip on the slick mud resign themselves to crawling.

In the distance, a boat has turned to dip into the water, spilling human bodies as it capsizes. The sea is bottomless and boundless, and it takes many of them with no mercy. Those who are able to swim are struggling to help others stay above water, lifting children from the water and helping them back into the boat. People are screaming names, but they get lost in the sound of the storm, lightning and thunder punishingly loud. They all seek to be saved, crying and begging for life, clutching to life desperately. They aren’t aware that they are damned, unknowing that they are the sacrifices. They only know of fear. For now, they scream for help, electing to hoist each other up or kick each other down for a place at the top of the hill. Will watches as nearby, a man is shoved off the top of a rock and is sent tumbling into the sea. He grasps at the slick edges but cannot find a handhold, and in little time the sea takes him.

A woman struggles to lift her child into a boat before being smacked by a wave – it pushes her into a jagged rock and with a dull _thwack_ her skull is split. Will can feel her pain as if held within his own body. Her child screams and her blood stains the water even darker.

The deafening sound pauses abruptly, the moment paused in its tracks, the world frozen on its axis, and when Will opens his eyes, he finds himself back in the classroom. He does not know how much time has passed.

Will rubs his eyes, taking a deep breath. He blinks away his blurry vision. “My apologies, I lost my train of thought.” Will says, glancing around the room, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. He cracks his knuckles, steadying himself with another shaky breath. His hands are trembling, and his heart is still pounding. “ _The Deluge_ was how Michelangelo began, but it was only the first step towards realizing his intentions. While some of the other frescoes lack a narrative, this work exhibits four narratives, focusing on the remainder of the human race fated to drown in the great flood. It does not shy away from representing tragedy, and there is an interesting concept presented here – the viewers are meant to empathize with these people, but their figures are so clustered together that they are largely unrecognizable, and arguably, impersonable. The figures in this fresco engaged in fear, in suffering, are the building blocks of the drama Michelangelo orchestrates rather than the entirety of the drama itself, and we are, in many ways, meant to understand this as a worthy form of sacrifice.” Will tips his neck to the side, feeling the bones crack. Hannibal is still watching him, but Will avoids him, watching the back of the room for a moment, before turning around to glance at the screen. The image of _The Deluge_ is projected, and Will can almost still hear their screams, feel the water lapping at his ankles. Both the story and the vision he'd seen were both fictive, but Will still feels their fear, their desperation as they crawl and struggle to keep their lives. The lines have become too blurred, and Will feels untethered, his mind fuzzy.

“Michelangelo purposely severs that connection between us, the viewers, and the subjects of his fresco so that we as the viewers are reminded that this is a righteous act – the unquestionable will of God. Michelangelo notes on the deliverance of Noah and his family, of the salvation of the human race offered a second chance in a new world. A representation of the divine kindness of God, but also of the severity of God. Water is cleansing, purifying, and God is purifying the world, even if that means sacrificing everything else. This is justified catastrophe.” Will takes a drink of his coffee, taking note that it is still lingering with warmth; he wasn’t gone for too long, after all. “I would encourage you all to consider that concept. On that note, I’ll let you all go. Have a great weekend.” It sounds a little stiff, but Will dismisses it, waiting for his students to pack up their things and leave the room. He crosses around the sides of the desk, collapsing down in the chair. A wave of exhaustion washes over him, and Will lies his head in his hands. His temple is throbbing, threatening a worse migraine in the short future.

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal says, and he looks up to face him. He smiles at Will, his coat draped over his arm, his hands clasped lightly on his stomach.

Will sits up slightly, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. _Today isn’t the day for polite small talk,_ Will thinks to himself, feeling faintly annoyed. He furrows his eyebrows. “Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“I found your lecture today enthralling. Many of your students were hanging onto every word.” Hannibal remarks, pausing for a moment. Whatever he’s thinking about, he doesn’t show it on his face. Will doesn’t say anything in response – his head is pounding, and his stomach is churning. “Are you feeling alright, Will? You look a little pale.”

Will notes that’s his _concerned_ face, although it’s not much different from the rest of his expressions, anyway.

“It’s nothing.” Will says sharply. Feeling a little guilty for the biting remark, he softens up a little. “I’ve had some trouble sleeping lately, that’s all.” He silently hopes that will be the last of Hannibal’s remarks for today, and he’ll go away and leave Will alone, so he can go take a short nap in his car.

Hannibal presses on. “Any particular reason why?”

He seems so intent on understanding Will in a way that makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice his frustration, either – or notices and otherwise ignores it.

“Bad dreams.” Will says, pausing for a moment. He’s not entirely sure why he answers, but it makes him feel a little peeved. He tightens his hand around the edge of the desk. “You’re not my therapist, you know.” Will bites back, his shoulders tense. “I don’t appreciate you poking around in my head.”

“I never viewed myself as such.” Hannibal says, his voice calm. “And I have no intentions of poking around in your head.” When Hannibal parrots his words back to Will, he feels a little sheepish. “I simply have an interest in you, Will.”

“Personal or professional?” Will says, more inquisitive than defensive, but he still feels a little uncomfortable under Hannibal’s gaze. He’s not quite sure if he’s the ant anymore, but Hannibal still seems equipped with a magnifying glass, for an indiscernible reason.

“I hadn’t yet decided either way, so I suppose at this moment that depends on you.” Hannibal smiles lightly. “I can leave today and never return to your classroom again if that’s what you wish. You’ll never have to see me again.”

Will pauses for a moment, straightening his suit jacket to avoid eye contact as he thinks. There’s definitely an allure to Hannibal, someone to talk to, but Will isn’t quite sure what Hannibal would get out of such a relationship – sating an _interest_ doesn’t seem like quite enough of a reason. But Hannibal doesn’t seem to harbor any ulterior motives, as far as Will can discern.

“I don’t find you very interesting,” Will remarks, a little harsher than he’d intended. He scratches the back of his hand, eyes briefly meeting with Hannibal’s. His expression is composed but warm.

“You will.” Hannibal simply states. “Given the opportunity to get to know me.” It makes Will smile.

Will isn’t entirely sure why he concedes, but he does. Maybe it’s because he harbors a similar interest in Hannibal that he does in Will. Either way, Will lets Hannibal lead him out of the classroom.

***

The first thing Will notices about Hannibal’s office is that it is _so_ much larger than his. Will’s is one of many small offices in the art building, all the art history professors’ offices lined in one hallway, and he can barely fit more than three people in there at a time. Even then, it’s a tight fit.

Hannibal Lecter’s office – well. It’s in one of the older buildings on the east side of campus, built sometime in the 19th century, and it takes up more than half a floor. It’s lavishly decorated, too, bookshelves and sculptures and paintings, even, and a fireplace? A fucking fireplace. There’s enough room for a seating area and his desk near the spacious window, which looks so heavy Will’s surprised they managed to get it up the stairs to begin with – the only service elevator would’ve been too small to fit it. The furniture is all in shades of dark wood lit up beautifully by the dim light that casts everything in shadows – he hopes Hannibal doesn’t notice the look of genuine surprise on his face. He’s a little jealous, even.

It really doesn’t even feel like an office on campus grounds, it feels like a place from another world, Victorian London, or something of the same sort. It’s so classy, so distinguished and composed just like every other thing about Hannibal. Will feels the need to straighten his clothing and fix his hair to the best of his ability. “This is much more generous than my office.” He laughs, stiffly.

Hannibal busies himself opening the cabinet, retrieving two delicate wine glasses. He laughs lightly. “One of many renumerations for remaining at the university.” He says, gesturing to the sitting area. “Make yourself comfortable.” When Will sits, Hannibal continues. “They were eager to keep me around after the extent of offers from other prestigious universities when my work was published on childhood environment as a role in the development of serial killers.” Hannibal says, carefully removing the cork from a bottle and pouring it into the glasses. In the dim light, it’s hard to make out Hannibal’s expression from across the room.

“I read that.” Will says, studying Hannibal’s extensive collection of books. “It was interesting.” He takes the glass from Hannibal and watches as he settles across from Will, crossing his legs. The light makes his face even more handsome, firelight flickering on the sharp edge of his chin, making his features even more distinct. It’s undeniable that he’s good looking.

The room is silent for a moment, nothing but the crackling sound of the fireplace. Will meets his eyes for a moment and holds it, studying Hannibal. He’s trained himself to try and recognize the expressions of others, but his is indiscernible. It’s both unsettling and calming, in some strange way.

Hannibal takes in the aroma of the wine before taking a sip. “In your lecture you mentioned Michelangelo representing the will of God as both unquestionable and wholly justifiable. Do you consider the actions of God to be remissible, Will?”

“I don’t think the answer is that simple.” Will remarks, before taking a drink of his wine. He’s not the type to seek out expensive wine, but Will can clearly notice the difference – it is smooth, flavorful – namely, beyond Will’s palate. “I believe that the cruelty of God is often overlooked. The Old Testament wrathful God is often omitted in favor of a benevolent, gentle God.” Will pauses for a moment, tensing and untensing his hand. “But I do think that God is destructive. Violent. I struggle to understand how one can justify watching God sitting back, watching his creations suffer.” Hannibal watches him closely, appearing almost enraptured in Will’s words. “Doesn’t make him no different than the devil?”

The corners of Hannibal’s lips curl up in a crooked smile. His eyes flicker in the firelight, inky pools reflecting the hungry flames. “Namely, I believe that when one seeks to define God within the constructs of inherently human morals, they lose the meaning of God to begin with.” Hannibal says, his gaze piercing. Will notices that there is a certain almost intoxicating allure to his voice, to his words. “I also believe that the beauty of God comes not just from his kindness, but from his wrath. Wrath commands the most attention of any tool in God’s arsenal. Arguably more powerful than deliverance, or salvation. The most beautiful acts of God come with the price of violence. It took a flood for the most beautiful of his designs to flourish – violence is not so simple, and neither is wrath.” 

Will closes his eyes, seeing the image of that woman’s head colliding with the rock, the cries and screams of her child. Her brain matter and fragments of skull spilling out into the water. “And does God enjoy inflicting his wrath?” 

Hannibal catches his eyes, his gaze piercing through Will. "Wouldn't you?" 

There’s a long pause, and Will isn’t sure how to answer. 

“Tell me, Will. What do you consider the difference to be between God and the devil?” 

Will pauses for a moment, pondering the question. “God is forgiving, even towards the greatest sinners. And God creates, while the devil only destroys.” 

Hannibal pauses for a moment. “The truth is, there isn’t one.” Hannibal says. “Lucifer was once God’s favorite angel, but he cast him out, for the heinous crime of loving God too much. The blade of his devotion turned back against him. The devil is not as black as he is painted - the division of good and evil, of just an unjust, is a human-fabricated notion. We are the ones who assign meanings to those words.” 

“Then what is God, if not good?” 

“God is both good and evil, both creator and destroyer. And above all, both judge and executioner.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, this fic has been converted by the magical [aoyeet!](https://aoyeet.space). *blows kiss* i love u aoyeet  
> i'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated & they feed the little validation gremlin that lives in my brain. plus, they let me know you're enjoying my work. see you in the next one, my hannigram lovelies <3


	3. the persistence of memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene changes again. Will grunts in strain as he carves into Matthew William’s chest, cuts through his sternum with bone saw. “Matthew Williams is alive when I cut his heart out.” Will reaches into his chest cavity, disconnecting his heart. Blood sprays onto his face, but Will does not stop. “I want him to see his heart in my hand before he dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally some hannibal focus ! writing his bit of this chapter was so challenging and yet SO VERY FUN. i also am very happy to bring our boy jack into the story and finally some alana ! i apologize for the slightly delayed update - this fic is *very* research-heavy and i am putting a lot of love into it.  
> this chapter, i recommend listening to [pearl diver by mitski](https://open.spotify.com/track/1AawyOAUCnID3AiuXsL5oB?si=bSbBMWpPS3u5H7jXAVGS_g) or [blood by starbenders](https://open.spotify.com/track/27g189cnIDD0IEub9InaBH?si=bHMnJdbGR0SBCms__Wj6_Q)  
> enjoy!

Hannibal flips through the ring of business cards, considering each name. He finally settles on a gold-embossed thick piece of cardstock, printed in a neat black font.

_Matthew Williams_

_Real Estate Developer_

Hannibal remembers the man clearly, particularly recalling him establishing a poor first impression as he hammered on the door, interrupting Hannibal in the middle of preparing dinner. He’d removed his oven mitts and strode to the door, the man knocking like he’d intended to knock the door down.

_Hannibal opens the door. Behind it is a man with faux-tanned skin, more orange than white, almost a foot shorter than Hannibal. His suit looks expensive but is poorly paired, like a child who doesn’t know quite how to dress himself, yet._

_“Mr. Lecter?” The man asked, interrupting the greeting halfway out of Hannibal’s mouth. “I’m Matthew Williams, with Williams Real Estate and Development. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”_

_Hannibal vaguely remembers his name, likely from the papers but he can’t quite place the man aside from the familiarity of his name._

_The younger of the father-and-son pair, Matthew Williams had all the traits of someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth that never learned an ounce of politeness or class. Hannibal notices this quickly, the way he looks at Hannibal like he’s entitled to something. He’s a greasy, simpering little man, with a rodent-like demeanor. Hannibal recalls an article on the development of older, primarily black and brown neighborhoods in the city and of the increased homelessness as a result, all below picture of a father and son, smartly dressed and beaming, like the cat who caught the canary. Ah,_ That’s _where he remembers Matthew Williams from._

_Hannibal does not let his irritation show on his face, instead a friendly, measured smile._

_“Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal corrects, “but yes, that’s me. Would you like to come in?” No matter how irritating the man, at the very least, Hannibal remains a good host and steps aside to let his guest in. “May I ask why you are here?”_

_He doesn’t bother to wipe his feet on the mat despite the slushy weather outside, leaving wet footprint marks on the floor as he steps into the dining room. “On behalf of my father, actually. We’ve been looking to purchase properties in this area. Are you aware of the value of your home, Mr. Lecter?”_

_“Yes, I am.” Hannibal says. “And I have no intention of selling at this current time.”_

_The man leaned against the wall. “Oh yes, I understand that. We aren’t asking for you to sell anytime soon. We were just wondering if someone of your…” He pauses, not long enough to be directly insulting but it gets the message across more than clearly. “..._ Age _has any plans for your property after the time of your death.”_

_It’s more than just impolite of him to ask such a question, it’s downright insulting. Hannibal smiles tightly. “I’ll have to give it some thought. May I have your business card in the case that I change my mind?”_

Hannibal selects a recipe card as well and sets off to do his work. It’s been some time since he’s had such strong inspiration - his vision is clear, framed behind his eyes. Like he has painted it himself, their bodies the canvas upon which Hannibal will create art. Two men, lower than worms squirming in the dirt, strung up, made holy. Elevated. Deified. God the creator and the first man; father and son.

It’s a beauty akin to his vision from all those years ago in Florence. Hannibal has to admit he does feel equally inspired as he did in those days, self-possessed with a hunger to create.

But this time, it’s different - Hannibal is not just performing for the audience of the papers and the police, his intentions are much grander than that. He’s got a message to send, a picture to paint. A love letter, of sorts.

With a dull _thump,_ Mark Williams hits the ground. Matthew Williams squirms in fear. “Please, anything you want, I have money, there’s half a million in the safe, jewelry, too, I can get more, just _please_ don’t kill me _oh my god_ please dude –”

Hannibal never was one for begging. It always seemed pathetic.

Hannibal ensures Matthew Williams is alive when he cuts his heart out, to witness his sternum cut open, his heart beating, exposed to open air. The man is paralyzed, unable to move or speak, glassy-eyed and frozen, hardly more than a corpse already. But he’s terrified. Powerless. It is not an easy task to remove a heart, but Hannibal is practiced at it. Adam must be perfect; he must be beautiful – even if his subject of choice is far from it. Really, Hannibal is doing them a favor.

Hanging Mark Williams, Hannibal’s very own version of Christ, is the hardest part – his body is old and worn, his skin sagging in parts, a far cry from Michelangelo’s version of a Christ - but when Hannibal steps back to admire his work, he is very pleased with the scene that he’s created. They are poised, graceful and elegant, their arms outstretched, fingers millimeters from touching. A breaths’ width between creator and creation. Just like God, Mark Williams created his son in his very own image, imbued him with his thoughts and his ideas, his principles, and his privileges, and gave him all the wealth and the power, his only descendant – the one to take the helm after he was gone. Worthy of the Sistine Chapel, Hannibal thinks. Worthy of Will Graham.

**

Will wakes with a jolt, gasping for breath as he surfaces from the dream like a man nearly drowned, heaving for air as he reorients himself. He can taste blood, bitter and metallic from the place where he’d bitten his tongue in his sleep, apparently. It takes him a moment for the visions of the dream to fade, for Will to recognize the walls of small little house, the damp fabric of his sheets, the dog beds in front of the fireplace, and the dogs nestled in them, comfortably sleeping. He digs his nails into his palms, pushing them in until it stings, raking his fingers through his damp curls. _This is real. This is real._

He repeats it like a mantra, his breathing finally slowing after a number of minutes. These dreams are so vivid, so tangible, unlike anything Will has ever experienced before, the line between dream and reality becoming so very thin that Will can hardly distinguish between them anymore. Frankly, it scares him, images of the past so crystal-clear it’s like he’s living them all over again.

It’s a quarter to four in the morning. Will wants a drink.

Will settles into his chair, rubbing the aching flesh on his temples. Every muscle in his body is tense, his neck muscles stretched taught. He’s trembling near-imperceptibly, his heart still hammering in his chest.

“Fucking hell.” Will says to himself, burying his face in his hands. He’d stepped away from it all, from the job and the haunting gazes of the dead, their glassy eyes watching him, following him around the room, whispering messages of guilt, of fault. _Killer._ But it was still haunting him, _they_ were still haunting them. Like it was Will’s very own hands that had cut and torn and snapped and stripped, like it was his hands holding the knife and pulling the trigger. Like he’s losing the line again, where they begin and Will ends, and he’s guilty but the feeling he can’t seem to smother or crush is the _power,_ the rush of being able to overturn the balance between life and death. And that makes Will feel even worse.

Will pours himself a glass of whiskey and sits back down. When he drinks, his bitten tongue burns, but it centers him - even if just a little, it clears the clouds in his mind. _It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,_ Will thinks to himself, and smiles weakly at himself. It’s not even all that funny, but he holds on to what he can get.

Will sits at his desk, turning on his laptop. The sun is just beginning to rise, the sky a cool grey tinged at the edges with pink, filtering through the trees. The document stares back at Will emptily, almost accusatory. Will takes another drink. The frustration has been mounting for weeks - he’s made a painfully small amount of progress - despite his best efforts, he can’t bring his thoughts to the page, can’t manage to write even the shortest string of words. The wall behind is desk is covered with images of paintings, reminiscent of corkboards plastered with images of bodies floating in rivers against their high-school yearbook photos, maps with bright red thumbtacks denoting deaths and disappearances.

Images of gore and violence in paintings are almost comforting, honestly. It’s a strange thought, but Will finds some kind of solace, the lightning rod connecting idea and masterpiece. In the theatre of his mind, in the scenes of the paintings, Will is not inflicting such violence – for once, he takes solace in being only an observer, confined to the body of the artist, neither a victim nor a killer, just creator, pure artistry coming from his fingers. And it’s gentle, careful etchings in charcoal, delicate strokes of gouache, carving the likenesses of men into marble.

**

The weekend passes, much to Will’s gratitude, and by Monday, Will finds himself on the way to Hannibal Lecter’s office again. It’s a bitterly cold day, threatening a possible snow on the horizon and Will pulls his jacket close as he ascends the stairs to Hannibal’s office, still feeling slightly jealous of his accommodations from the university while Will’s office hardly has working heat, most of the time.

Two raps on the door and Hannibal answers, quick enough that Will wonders if Hannibal was expecting him. Like he knew he was coming. Will disregards the thought quickly, shaking his head at the idea.

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal says in a cool tone, a smile blooming across his face. He’s wearing a salmon pink shirt with a richly patterned floral tie, cornflower blooms tying in with the Prussian blue of his jacket. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Will thinks to himself _I wasn’t expecting to end up here, either._ His intentions weren’t all that clear, anyway. He’s never been one to enjoy socializing with his colleagues, but he admittedly _does_ like talking to Hannibal – he’s intelligent, and he seems to understand Will, and above all he seems to take a genuine interest in him, something that seems more personal than professional. And it’s nice, really, to have someone to talk to, and in Hannibal’s presence, Will does feel a little calmer, a little less on edge.

“I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?” Will says, unable to glance behind Hannibal’s broad shoulders to see if he’s interrupted something. He feels a little embarrassed, stifling a desire to make up some excuse and leave.

“No need to apologize, my office is always open to friends. I was just in the midst of grading midterm papers, and I’d be happy for the chance to escape the monotony.”

Hannibal gestures him in, stepping aside to allow Will through the door. There’s a neat stack of papers on Hannibal’s desk and one halfway marked in red pen, Hannibal’s handwriting filling the margins. Will is grateful for the blast of warm air that envelops him as he steps into the room, his hands still numb and red, his ears still flushed pink from the freezing weather.

Will hadn’t quite resolved himself to visit Hannibal when he’d set out across campus – he’d woken sharply from a nap at his desk, images of blood and bodies hanging from limbs of trees, blood dripping from their open mouths, images all floating behind his eyes, hanging around Will like specters, like ghosts. Apparitions of the past and the present – conjoined, like one menacing beast. His heart was hammering, his hands cold and clammy, sweat dripping from his forehead and collecting around the base of his neck. He could’ve sworn the smell of blood still hung in the air before dissipating in an instant.

The nightmares seemed to only be getting worse – Will finally resigning himself to sleeping in short bursts, sometimes a couple of hours, often only minutes. The worst days, there are often moments where Will isn’t entirely sure whether he’s awake or still sleeping, in the liminal space between waking and dreaming. Today, he’s not sure how he’s still standing.

Hannibal closes the door behind him. “I’ve given much thought to our conversation on Friday – it left me feeling inspired to create some art of my own.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Doctor Lecter.”

“A musician, actually,” Hannibal says, smiling. Will settles into the plush chair closest to the fireplace. “I started composing a new piece on the harpsichord.”

“You were inspired by the wrath of God?” Will laughs lightly.

“I always find myself inspired by God’s wrath.” Hannibal remarks, his tone crisp, his lips curled into an almost kittenish smile. “But no, this time, I was more inspired by devotion.”

Will opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“So, Will. What brings you to my office today?” Hannibal says, settling in the chair across from him.

Will hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to say. Hannibal looks over him for a second and Will tries to avoid meeting his eyes, allowing for further scrutiny. When he doesn’t answer, Hannibal responds for him. “Troubles over the weekend?”

“Yeah.” Will says, grateful that he doesn’t have to go into more detail. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“You’d mentioned bad dreams last time we spoke. Is that what’s keeping you awake?”

Will strokes his temple. “Yeah, for the most part.”

“The realm of dreams is where we are most vulnerable to our deepest fears and insecurities. Tell me Will, what fears do your dreams hold?”

“I really don’t know. Echoes, of the past. Violence.” Will sighs. “All the ugliness my mind can conjure. And they’re so abstract, so…” Will stands from his chair, standing in front of the fireplace. The flames lick at the edges of the logs, embers crackling. His dreams are hard to put words to. “Vague, that I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” Hell, even if he did, it wouldn’t make any sense.

“The violence of your past?”

“I’m not so sure what’s exclusive to the past anymore.” Will rubs the toughened skin on his palms. “It all seems to be blurring together. My past life and my current one. I’m not entirely sure I know who I am anymore.” 

Hannibal studies him for a moment. “For someone who has so much violence echoing in the halls of your mind, I wonder why you intentionally seek out the same in your work.” Hannibal remarks.

Will turns back on his heel, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “I find it comforting. It’s not the same sort of violence. It’s different. Not the same things I see in my dreams.”

“Art shows some of the greatest horrors in the most beautiful of ways. It gives words to what we cannot.”

“My dreams are… Delphic. It’s like a living, breathing Dali painting in there. Melting clocks and all. I’m sure any artist could get years of material from one glance inside of my head.”

“I’m sure they’d jump at the opportunity.” Hannibal says, smiling, and Will laughs dryly. “You’re quite the prodigy, even in non-academic circles.”

Will isn’t so sure about that, but he doesn’t bother to say anything.

Hannibal pauses for a long moment, nothing but the sound of the fireplace crackling and their own breathing. “Is it the work of our Baltimore Michelangelo that haunts you when you close your eyes, Will?”

That does seem to be the root of the issue, like that picture had torn away the only barriers that were keeping Will on solid ground. Will removes his glasses, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“Are you afraid that he painted this picture with you in mind?”

“Me?” Will chuckles. “No. I doubt anyone remembers me, anyway. It’s been more than half a decade.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Will’s phone rings, a interruption he is grateful for. _Alana Bloom_ is printed in large letters across the screen, leaving a bad feeling in Will’s stomach. It’s not that Will isn’t more than slightly elated to see her calling, but Alana rarely is the type to call for no reason, especially not this late. She’d be drinking at home by now, watching television, curled up with her dog. Not calling Will.

“Something you have to take?” Hannibal inquires.

“No.” Will says, a little too sharply. He swipes to decline the call and puts his phone away. “Spam caller. What were you saying? I’m sorry.”

“I’d asked what you were afraid of.”

_Right._

Will doesn’t get a chance to speak before his phone starts ringing again.

“Quite the persistent spam caller you have.”

Will sighs. “Unfortunately. Listen, do you mind if I take this?”

Hannibal nods. “Be my guest.”

**

“I’ve been told you’re close with him, Doctor Bloom. Is that true?”

Alana ponders that question for a moment. Will was more than an acquaintance, but not necessarily quite a friend, not yet at least. He’s… Well. Will’s a colleague, and someone Alana is fond of, someone she’d like to consider a friend, eventually. But he’s closed off. Friendlier to Alana than most - but still guarded, even when Alana tries to show her intentions are honest. He’s brilliant, really, and Alana takes an interest in him, more than just academically – despite knowing some of her colleagues would jump at the chance to study Will Graham’s mind.

“Is that why you’ve come to me first?” Alana asks. “Hoping I’ll connect you to him, Detective Crawford?”

“He’s been ignoring our calls.” Jack responds, still standing close to the door. His arms are crossed, his shoulders tense. “We were hoping you’d be able to…” He trails off, straightening his hat with a sigh. “Ease the tension _._ Encourage him.”

Alana sighs. Will would listen to her if she asked, but she’s not sure if she wants to put him in that position. “Remind me again, why you’re so interested in Will? You said you hadn’t met him.”

“Not personally.” Jack says. “I know _of_ him. Of his certain… _Proclivity_ to understand people. He draws conclusions even my brightest couldn’t dream of.”

Of what Alana knows about Will, she knows that his days in profiling are long in the past, that he’d left that all behind. She also knows that art was his refuge, his life raft – but the ghosts of his past are still very present for him. On his worst days, Will looks like he’s been through war, and it weighs heavy on him, despite his best efforts to conceal it. Whatever he’d been through, it hadn’t been easy for him. He’d suffered, and it pains her to think this will make him suffer again. 

“There isn’t anyone else?” Alana asks, tapping a stack of papers to her desk, straightening the tissue box.

“There are many others. But no one like him.” Jack sighs, settling in one of Alana’s leather armchairs. “He’s our best shot.”

Alana steadies herself, taking a short breath. If things are as Jack Crawford says they are, then she can’t just let this go. She’s required, almost morally indebted, to contact him, even against her better judgement and her compassion for Will. It’s bigger than that, bigger than him. “If I call him, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Jack says, leaning forward.

“Promise me that you’ll keep him safe. That you won’t let him get too close.”

“I give you my word.”

**

Will didn’t anticipate their persistence. For a few days, it was easy to ignore their calls, leave his phone on silent or turn it off altogether. But this… This is ballsy. He’s irked that they’d reach out to Alana, feeling more than a little dirty.

It’s a short walk from Hannibal’s office to Alana’s, the dread and frustration brewing in his stomach into a bitter cocktail, souring any excitement Will felt at the prospect of seeing Alana.

“Hey, Will.” Alana says, a small smile on her face, the look in her eyes apologetic. “How are you?”

Will smiles weakly, suddenly feeling painfully exhausted. “Tired.”

Inside her office, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black peacoat reclines against Alana’s desk, a grim expression on his face. His shoulders are tense, like he’s carrying the heaviest of heavy burdens. “Professor Graham?” He reaches out his hand and Will reluctantly shakes it. His grip is firm, self-assured.

“Yeah.” Will says, releasing a shaky breath. _Unfortunately._ He’d give anything to be somebody else right now, or to be a thousand miles away from here. If anyone else had called, he’d have told them there was no way in hell, but this was Alana, and it hadn’t taken much for her to talk Will into it. _Just hear him out, just give him a chance._

Will is already regretting offering a chance.

“Jack Crawford. I’m with the FBI, Behavioral Sciences Division.” He smiles, trying to meet Will’s eyes. He avoids it, stepping back to sit. He recalls Beverly mentioning him in passing, that he was razor-sharp intelligent and one of the best at catching killers, but harbored a bit of a temper.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Will responds stiffly.

“No, but your reputation precedes you, Professor Graham. Beverly Katz speaks very highly of you.”

“Will is fine.” He says, removing his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. His fingers are still numb.

“Knowing your reputation, I have to wonder why you’re here, Will. Rumor has it you have quite the talent for profiling.”

“Something like that.” Will says, sharply. More bitter than he’d intended. “Can I ask why you felt the need to involve Doctor Bloom to get in contact with me?” This time the bite in Will’s words is intended, and Jack detects it, raising an eyebrow at him – it’s apparent that few people in Jack Crawford’s life dare to talk to him that way. Head of the Behavioral Sciences division, after all, but he’s not Will’s superior, and Will isn’t in the mood to play polite. Something about being truly exhausted inhibits Will’s ability to try and be courteous.

Jack Crawford forces a laugh. “You weren’t answering our calls.”

Will tenses. “Have you considered the possibility that may have been purposeful?” His tone is cold.

He seems almost stunned at Will’s nerve. “I’d considered it.” Jack schools his expression but Will can see the way his hands tense, his shoulders tighten. “Doctor Bloom was the only way we could get in touch with you.” He moves from the desk, stepping close to Will. As he steps closer, Will takes a short breath, his shoulders tensing. With one hand, he straightens Will’s glasses. “Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

“More autistic than sociopathic, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Will responds coolly, biting back a ruder remark.

“But you can understand those on the other side of the coin?”

“I can empathize with anyone, Detective Crawford. Not just the narcissists and sociopaths.” 

Alana’s standing by the door, so tense that she’s almost statue-like.

“I have to admit, Will. We need your help.” Jack says, bowing his head. He looks a little abashed, just asking for help.

Will stands quickly, pacing across the room. Beverly had warned him, but that doesn’t change the shock of electricity that courses through his body. It’s apprehension, anger, but mostly fear. Fear something like meeting eyes with the wolf in the darkest corner of the room. It doesn’t move, but it’s caught Will’s scent, and he can see its eyes glowing in the dark.

“Detective Crawford, for someone at such a prestigious position, I’d think you’d have more connections.” Will snaps. He glances at Alana and she stares, wide-eyed. Will turns back on his heel, facing Jack again.

The muscles in his face are stretched taught, but he chuckles dryly. “We needed someone of a certain…” Jack pauses, fingers meeting with his temple. “Skill level.”

“Then call someone else.” Will says. His hands are shaking, near imperceptibly. Sweat is beading at the base of his neck.

“My colleagues tell me there’s no one else like you.”

Will takes a shaky breath. “Your _colleagues_ neglected to mention that I’m out. I don’t do that anymore.”

“So I’ve heard.” Jack responds, standing from the desk. “I can’t make you do this, Will.”

“Then why are you here?” Will raises his voice. “I don’t… I _can’t_ do that anymore.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Jack doesn’t raise his voice to match Will’s, despite his obvious irritation.

“Can’t.” Will sighs. “Won’t. Either way, what does it matter?”

“You don’t get it.” Jack pauses and looks over at Alana. “Doctor Bloom, can you give us a moment?”

“Sure.” Alana responds, taking one last glance at Will before she steps out the door.

“Don’t get what?” Will responds, leaning against the desk.

“It’s the Ripper.”

Will scoffs but his heart catches in his chest. It’s more than just improbable, it’s near impossible. “The Ripper is gone.” Dead, maybe. Or in jail. Or out of the country. But gone, nonetheless.

“Not anymore.” Jack says. “This has all the markers of a Ripper murder. Theatrical display, surgical trophies, everything.”

Will hesitates, his grip on the desk tightening, his knuckles turning white. “Then it’s a copycat.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It’s been five years since the last Ripper murder. He’s gone.”

“Records say you consulted on the last known Ripper murders.” Jack says.

Will takes a deep breath. “I was. I did. That’s why I know it’s not him.”

“I was in New York at the time, but they say you were close, to catching him. To putting him away, for good.” Jack meets his eyes.

_I was close, alright._ Close because the Ripper wanted him to feel like he was. Close because the Ripper was pulling the strings. He was the Ripper’s last puppet, before he went into hiding again.

“Something like that.” Will chokes out. “It’s not him, Jack. He’s gone. Dead, or more likely, out of the country.”

He doesn’t seem to register Will calling him by his first name. Or perhaps he carefully ignores it.

“Then help me eliminate the possibility.” Jack closes his eyes. “Please.”

**

The chemical stench of a morgue is all-too familiar as Will steps into the cold room. Coupled with the fat snowflakes drifting down outside, Will’s bones feel frozen solid.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, Will?” Beverly asks, glancing at him with a concerned look.

Will takes a shuddering breath. “I’m fine.”

He’s pretty fucking far from fine, but Will tries his best to not let on.

The plastic sheets covering the two bodies are pulled down, revealing their mottled, greying skin. If not for the FBI’s involvement, they’d be coffined and buried by now, and the ripeness of the corpses is apparent. The stink of their decaying bodies is barely masked by the scents of formaldehyde and chemical cleaners. Will’s breakfast turns over in his stomach. It’s not his first time, far from it, but that does not keep him from wanting to empty his stomach all over the pristine-clean floors.

“Give him some space.” The coroner and one of the FBI agents – Will doesn’t remember his name – quickly hurry out the door. “You too, Z.” Jack nods at the other man. He pats Will’s shoulder in a way in an attempt to be comforting that only feels painfully awkward. “We’ll be outside when you need us.”

Beverly touches Will’s arm. “If you need anything, I’m here. I’ll be right outside.” She’s the last to go, giving Will one last long look.

Will regrets getting out of bed in the first place.

On a nearby table, a manilla folder is left open, pictures of the scene spread out around it. Will does not need to remind himself of the scene – it has been plastered behind his eyes for days now. Mark and Matthew Williams, father and son, climbing the ladder of wealth and high society in Baltimore.

Will pulls back the plastic sheet, looking over Mark Williams’ body. As his body has decomposed, the place where he was stitched back together has become more apparent, his cells no longer working in tandem to repair it. Missing his liver and his kidney, sewn so delicately back together you could hardly tell he was ever cut to begin with.

His son is in the same shape, but his heart is missing, his chest cavity caving in where his ribs and sternum are broken.

Will closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. A bar of light and a deep, pulsating humming resound behind his eyes in the same familiar rhythmic motion. Will rewinds, plastic sheeted bodies moving backward in time with Will’s footsteps. When it stops, Will is standing in front of a tall, white door.

He knocks. One raps, two raps. Polite. Inside, he hears voices, and the door opens. “Yes?”

A young man answers, long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. He’s wearing an expensive suit. He looks annoyed.

Will does not hesitate, does not need to think, before he kicks the door in. The man falls back in surprise, sprawling across the carpet. The apartment is spacious, clearly worth a sum, and is lavishly decorated, paintings worth nothing less than millions decorating the walls.

“I do not need an invitation into Matthew Williams’ home.” His voice reverberates throughout the apartment. The man prepares to stand, but Will kicks him down, knocking the breath out of him. He hears the sound of bone snapping as he presses his foot into the man’s ribcage. “I break one of his ribs in the process. It is purposeful. I carefully craft the elements of his suffering.” Will steps over Matthew Williams. “He does not know me. He does not need to. But I know him. This is not a crime of passion. This is planned, and carefully executed. They deserve what is coming to them. I seal their deaths with a holy wrath.” Will rounds the corner of the apartment, into the large dining room. “I am as God is. I am righteous.”

Will paces to the kitchen, finding Mark Williams with a glass of wine in his hand. He has not heard Will come in. He turns, surprised, reaching for a knife, but Will is quick, agile, and attacks him, smacking his head against the crystal marble counter in one fell swoop. He has the speed and motivation of a predator, yet he remains composed. “I render Mark Williams unconscious.” He slumps to the ground. “It is not his turn yet, and this is not about him.”

Behind him, Matthew Williams is sniveling, tears in his eyes. Reduced by fear to nothing but a child. “Please, anything you want, I have money, there’s half a million in the safe, jewelry, too, I can get more, just _please_ don’t kill me _oh my god_ please dude –”

“Matthew Williams begs for his life but is not aware that I am not here for his money.” Will steps forward. He is still struggling to stand, clutching where his rib has broken. “I find him pathetic. No better than a pig rolling around in its own filth. He makes me sick, but he is a worthy form of sacrifice.”

Will watches Matthew Williams struggle for a moment, waiting until he stands. “This is an act of divine punishment.” Will steps forward, rendering Matthew Williams unconscious with a blow from his elbow. He collapses to the ground again. “He is the subject of my wrath.”

The scene changes in the blink of an eye. “I ensure Matthew Williams is paralyzed and powerless before I kill his father in front of him. He is bound, but he does not need to be.” Will turns to face him again, bound against the leg of a table. “He cannot scream, or struggle.”

“Mark Williams does not survive me cutting his kidney out. I am careful and surgical. You are my canvas upon which I will create.” Will moves the blade in a practiced motion, filleting him as one would a slaughtered animal, preparing its meat for dinner. Blood sprays across the room, splattering onto the painting. Mark William awakes as Will slices, removing the kidney. Blood begins to pool around them. “Mark Williams is a weak man, and it does not take him long to die. Keeping him alive is not important to me.” Will watches as the last of Mark William’s desire to fight fades and he succumbs. Will turns to Matthew Williams, tilting his head up with a bloodied hand. It leaves a mark upon his face. Will holds his gaze. “I want you to watch. I want you to suffer.”

The scene changes again. Will grunts in strain as he carves into Matthew William’s chest, cuts through his sternum with bone saw. “Matthew Williams is alive when I cut his heart out.” Will reaches into his chest cavity, disconnecting his heart. There’s a wet squishing sound as Will cuts the organ out. Blood sprays onto his face, but Will does not stop. “I want him to see his heart in my hand before he dies.”

Will watches the man gurgle on his own blood as it fills his throat, drowning him from inside out. “He will drown in his own blood before his body shuts down. His last memory will be immense suffering. The last thing he sees will be me. Only after he is dead will I transform him into something beautiful.”

He blinks and when Will opens his eyes, he is underneath the tree. His fingers nimbly attach the fishing wire to Mark William’s wrist. “I clean and dress them. I am careful as I create my image.” He makes quick work of hoisting Mark Williams into position. “Mark Williams is the god in the picture I paint. He who creates his son in his own image. I honor my source material with respect.” Will supports Mark William’s sagging body. It takes him some time to get him into the position in which he desires, but when he steps back, it is perfect.

Will adjusts Matthew Williams’ hand, angling their limbs towards each other. When his finger doesn’t bend, Will snaps it, the sound of bone cracking reverberating through the night air. “I am making the ugliest of subjects into the most beautiful of artworks.” 

Will settles Matthew Williams’ body against the tree, angling his limbs in perfect pose. _Adam._ “I do not respect them, so I am as gracious and kind as God when I allow them to become something so beautiful. Their human forms are puny, worthless.” Will’s voice booms into the night. “I elevate them to holy status. I make them into art. This is my design.”

Will resurfaces and finds himself standing in the morgue. He knocks on the glass and Jack returns to the room, Beverly and the two other agents behind him. Will meets her eyes and gives her a small nod, hoping it suffices as a confirmation that he’s alright, despite the tension gripping his body.

Jack stands next to Will for a moment, looking over the bodies on the tables. Things are quiet for a while.

“Is it the Ripper?” Is the first thing he says. That’s the million dollar question, after all. 

“This does feel like the Ripper. His signature is all over it.” Will says. “But this feels strange. It’s almost too…. _Romantic_ for the Ripper. Not his usual M.O. He mocks his victims, but this isn’t mocking. He isn’t humiliating them. I think he considers himself to be elevating them. Making them beautiful.” Will wipes the sweat on his hands onto his pants. “Turning them into art.”

“Why would the Ripper turn someone he hated into art?” Beverly asks.

“He is making them holy.” Will responds, his voice quavering. “Giving them the blessing of becoming something so beautiful. He’s imparting them with a gift.”

“Why would the Ripper choose these specific people? Why Matthew and Mark Williams?” Beverly steps forward, her boots clicking rhythmically on the tiled floor.

Will pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not entirely sure this display was about the victims at all.”

“You think the victims were random?” Jack responds.

“No, not that. He knew the victims. He chose them on purpose. I just don’t think that this was exclusively about humiliating Matthew and Mark Williams.”

“Then what was this about?” Jack says.

“Sending a message.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. “Who is he sending a message to?” Beverly asks.

“My best guess? The people who failed to catch him last time.”

Behind him, one of the men speaks up - Zeller, Will recalls, was his name. He’s got a cocky air about him but he’s clearly intelligent. “Ripper’s writing love letters, now?”

“Wait.” Beverly says. “Will, you were consulting last time. You’re the only person who has ever come that close to catching him.”

Will doesn’t say anything, only taking a shaky breath. He’s been trying to avoid the possibility.

“Are you saying that the Ripper is sending _you_ a message?” Jack asks.

Will digs his fingernails into his palms. “Possibly.”

The silence is heavy. “I mean, it makes sense.” Beverly says. “Think about it. Within a few miles of the campus, and how they’re displayed? It’s practically got Will’s name on it.”

“How can we be sure it’s not a coincidence?”

Will sighs, raking through his hair. “We can’t.”

Jack takes a long breath, leaning against the wall. “If the Ripper’s trying to send you a message, then what is he trying to say?” 

“Honestly? I think this is the Ripper’s way of saying ‘hello.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, this fic has been converted by the magical [aoyeet!](https://aoyeet.space). *blows kiss* i love u aoyeet  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! i hope you enjoyed it. comments and all forms of feedback are appreciated and very desperately hoped for (they feed the little gremlin in my brain that lives for validation). this fic is very much my baby and i hope you all can tell how much love I've been putting into it.  
> see you in the next one my hannigram lovelies !

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts:  
> \- The skeleton I mention in this chapter is actually created by NBC Hannibal, there is no skeleton on the floor of Palatine Chapel!  
> \- I was so tired when I traveled to Italy, I fell asleep in the Sistine Chapel! Lol.  
> Comments and kudos are encouraged if you enjoyed and very much appreciated. Thank you my lovelies.  
> as always, this fic has been converted by the magical [aoyeet!](https://aoyeet.space). *blows kiss* i love u aoyeet  
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/pejming) if u want!


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